Hunting Azrael
by SomewhereApart
Summary: Mutilated victims. An angel of Death. And a double-dose of CSI romance. Co-written with Bella7. Rated M for violence and eventual sexytimes.
1. Prologue

The first thing she noticed was the smell—fresh paint and bleach. The second was the feel of the plastic—sweat-damp and sticky—peeling away from the side of her face as she shifted her head. The third was that she couldn't see. Or move her hands. Or her feet.

Actually, she couldn't even feel her hands or her feet.

She couldn't feel anything.

Trying for a moment to shove away the dread that was trickling through her, she forced herself to remember what had happened.

Think, damnit. Try to remember.

Work—she remembered work. Nothing weirder than usual. She'd roasted the beans for tomorrow, locked the door, closed the gate and...

Nothing.

Until this.

A squeaking hinge interrupted her thoughts. Blindly she looked toward the sound, the plastic ripping almost painfully away from her cheek as she whipped her head around.

"Hello, beautiful."

That voice. She knew that voice. Where had she heard it before?

She felt the roughness of his calloused fingers slide down the clammy side of her face—cringing, she tried to move away.

"Ah ah ah..." A hand moved underneath her hair to grip at her neck. "Where do you think you're going?" Fingers slipped beneath her blindfold and pulled the cloth away from her eyes.

The world swam for a moment before the shapes began to settle into focus. She searched for something—anything—to use as a landmark, but there was nothing. Just white, window-less walls, and a full-length mirror. Only her feet were visible in the reflection, numb and bound uselessly together.

The voice had retreated to the corner of the room and she remained at eye level only with his boots. She tried to roll over, somehow managed to do so successfully and discovered in a particularly disconcerting fashion that it wasn't just her hands and feet that were numb, it was almost everything from her shoulders down. It was as if she didn't exist below the neck, but she was sure that if she did, her bound arms would be wrenched painfully beneath her.

He'd evaded her sight line again, so she scanned the room and tried to remember anything from Girl Scout survival training or all those years watching Buffy the Vampire Slayer that could be of help in this situation. No such luck.

She could see that the plastic sheeting spread from one end of the floor clear to the other; the surface beneath was solid concrete. There rest of the room was sparse, almost clinical. There was the mirror, a chain dangling from the ceiling with thick hook on the end, and a long metal table just a few feet from her. He was behind it now, and she could hear the _tink-tink_ of metal on metal as he fiddled with whatever rested atop it, the long, steel length of the tabletop obscuring his view of her.

Okay. Okay. Now seemed like the perfect time to panic. If she could roll, she could get up, right? And if she could get up, she could run? She could just imagine she felt everything and psyche her body out. Yes. That was what she would do.

She pushed hard against the floor, trying to shove herself up into a sitting position. Or at least she thought she did. Nothing moved, and she couldn't feel any of the parts she needed for leverage. Crap!

And then she heard the crinkle of his boots on the plastic again, watched as he moved as if in slow motion toward the far edge of the table, around the end, and into her line of view. It was him. She knew him! Black coffee with room for cream and six Splendas. She saw him every day. Every single day. He always remembered her name – and always paid cash so she never knew his. He was _nice_, he was… He'd invited her to that concert last week, and she'd politely declined. Oh God.

He was empty-handed now, but his hands were gloved. He smiled at her – the same charming smile he always gave her along with his two-dollars-and-thirty-eight-cents at 7:15 every morning. Had his eyes always been that… maniacal when he did it? "Hello, Claire. I didn't bring any coffee – I'm pretty sure you'll have no problem staying alert – but there's water if you're thirsty."

She didn't reply, just stared at him in confused fear.

"Oh come on, sweetheart." When he reached down then and yanked her up roughly, the world spun against the sudden movement. "You're going to be here for a while, so you if you're thirsty, I'd recommend taking that drink." His voice had gone dark and dangerous, threatening. In her panic, she just nodded. "That's my girl," he cooed darkly, dragging her to the center of the room—she'd almost forgotten her feet were bound until right then—stopping directly across from the mirror and directly below the hook in the ceiling. It wasn't until that moment that she realized she'd been stripped down to nothing but the skimpy Victoria's Secret panties she'd bought just for Jason's birthday last month. Oh, God, Jason. Was he looking for her, she wondered? Had he even realized yet that she was missing? How long had she been here, anyway?

Her captor untied one of her wrists and she tried to struggle, tried to break free, and to her surprise he actually let her. It was pointless, though – she hopped once, then lost balance and tumbled onto her knees. He laughed at her – a chilling, sociopathic-movie-villain kind of laugh – and reached down to yank her up again. His hand around her arm was too strong, too solid. "I wouldn't recommend trying to escape. And don't bother screaming for help – the walls are soundproof. I decide when you leave—not you. In fact, you made your last decision around the time you told that loverboy of yours not to bother coming over tonight, because you were _too tired_." He sneered the last bit in a taunting, girly voice. "Thanks for that, by the way. He'd probably be calling out the search party by now and, hey, maybe you'd get out of here sooner. But I guess we all make our decisions in life."

Crap, crap, crap! Claire was pretty sure that his timeline for releasing her was "never," so she kept up the futile struggle – as least until he rammed one of those solid fists into her ribcage. She gasped, but felt nothing except a slow-blooming echo of pain deep inside. When she tried to wrench away again, the pain throbbed harder, and it was enough to quell any more attempts to fight him. She was going to die here. She knew it.

"That's better." He wrenched her arms up over her head, retying her wrist in a knot that looked tight but felt like nothing, then yanked her up onto her tiptoes and situated the rope over the hook in the ceiling before walking away. She was trapped there, staring at her own terrified reflection in the mirror, strung up like an animal waiting for slaughter. Which, she supposed, she was. Maybe she'd be lucky and he'd make it quick.

But then she made the mistake of looking over at that long, sterile table and her blood ran cold. The surface held a series of tools, all sharp, most terrifying, and she knew that it wouldn't be quick. It wouldn't be quick at all. Terror was slick and hot and bitter in her throat and she tried to thrash against her bonds, but she was strung too taut to do more than wiggle.

"Mm, keep doing that," he teased as he strolled up next to her with a glass of clear liquid in hand. "I like when you shimmy."

Claire stilled immediately, unable to keep from muttering under her breath.

"What was that?" he asked curiously, eyeing her.

What the hell, she figured. She was dead anyway, might as well go out with her usual sass. "I said… you're a pig."

He nodded slightly at that, set the cup down on the table with a small frown. And then his arm whipped up lightning-fast and he backhanded her hard enough to make her see stars. The side of her face throbbed and she tasted blood. Well. That hadn't been particularly productive, had it? Okay. For future reference, don't insult the guy who has you trussed up and next to a table of sharp instruments.

A moment later, he had her hair fisted in his hand, yanking her head back up and shoving the glass against her mouth. The contents splashed against her tongue and she was surprised to find that it was nothing but cool, fresh water. Eyeing him balefully, she gulped down several swallows.

"Expecting vinegar on a sponge, were you?" he asked before taking the glass and setting it aside. And then he picked up a slim, short knife. Shit. "I want you hydrated, Claire. Wouldn't want you to pass out before I'm done, after all."

She was breathing hard now despite the pain it caused, panic rising again like a tide, but there was no way to fight or avoid anything he might try to do to her. She watched the knife draw close to her, watched the blade until it disappeared beneath the swell of her breast. She felt nothing, and knew she would feel nothing more, but she couldn't bear not knowing what was happening to her, so she flicked her gaze to the mirror in front of her. He had just cut a slim, presumably shallow slice into her side. Blood welled in it, then began to drip, and still she felt nothing. Not a damned thing.

Maybe this was all a dream, just a really bad dream. Maybe that's why she thought she was numb. He sliced into her again, lower, along her belly. Again, she felt nothing, but watched the blood rise and then drip down slowly to stain the top edge of her underwear. Oh God. He could keep her alive for days like this, couldn't he? With shallow cuts and no pain to make her pass out. She'd be forced to watch while he just slowly flayed her. Claire suddenly wished she was like her baby sister Janie, who passed out cold at the sight of blood every time she got so much as a paper cut.

"Why—"

He paused and looked up to her, seemingly pleased that she'd spoken. "Why what?"

"Why are you doing this?"

"That's a good question," he asked, kneeling to carve a curling pattern along the outside of her thigh. "I don't really know."

"I don't believe you."

"Hmm." He just shrugged and kept up what he was doing.

"Why can't I feel anything?"

"Would you rather?" he asked curiously, standing again. Claire didn't answer, just stared at him, and his eyes went dark and impatient before he brought the knife back and rammed it hard, hilt-deep into her side. She barely heard his second, more insistent "_Would you rather_?" though her own pained cry.

"No!" she managed to choke, and he wrenched the knife out of her again with a deadly smile. Her vision swam with the deep burn of pain, and she wished she could just slip under into unconsciousness, but no luck. Her sight cleared a moment later, and she was stuck staring at the blood oozing down her side as he continued to cut her.

"That's what I thought."

Claire bit her lip hard, then realized with a trickle of horror that her fingers were beginning to tingle. Whatever he'd used to numb her was wearing off, and soon she'd feel everything. Everywhere. Until the pain and the blood loss ended her. Claire had never been a praying kind of girl, but she couldn't help it now. She prayed to God, to any of the Saints she could remember, to any deity she could think of. Where was an angel when you really needed one?

But if God was listening, she couldn't tell. There were no angels coming to deliver her, no help on the way. She was going to die here. She knew it. And as the pin-prick tingles spread up her arm, she knew it was be a long, painful while before this was over.


	2. Chapter One

Calleigh hated when the first call-out of the day was gruesome – especially when she'd had a big breakfast that morning. It was Tuesday, her and Eric's customary big-greasy-diner-breakfast day. She'd gorged herself on cheesy eggs and bacon and toast and two cups of coffee, watching him yawn into his own cup and shovel in food. So she was already feeling a touch nauseous when she got the call – there was a second victim.

Eric hadn't gotten the call out -- and hadn't finished eating -- so she relented against his offer to treat her this time, and dragged her food-stuffed self to her car. Now she was on the way to the scene, hoping it hadn't been as gruesome as the last, but not feeling optimistic. The problem wasn't the blood – it was the lack thereof. The first girl had been young, pretty. Dark hair, dark eyes. And she'd been carved to bits. Oh, her face had been fine. A bit bruised, but fine. Her body, though… She'd been stabbed and sliced, mostly shallow cuts. A slow bleed. A long, drawn-out, painful death.

And then, the sadistic bastard had carved detailed, ornate angel's wings into the poor girl's back. It was the only calling card he'd left – there had been absolutely nothing else on the body that could lead them to a suspect. The media had had a field day with the whole thing; Erica Sikes -- in her usual melodramatic fashion -- dubbed the killer "the angel of death," which made Calleigh want to hit her with something heavy. More than usual, anyway.

And now there was another body. Another girl. Same MO. With a sigh, and a quick wish that she would not lose her breakfast over the body, she parked her Hummer outside the Java Jungle Coffee Bungalow and grabbed her kit.

Ryan was waiting for her on the other side of the tape. "Good morning, sunshine."

She made a face. "If you want to call it that..." She fell into step with him on their way to the victim. "What've we got?"

"Claire Vincent," Ryan looked down at his notepad. "She works here—the owner said she's the closer on weekdays, works morning shift on the weekends."

"Did anyone report her missing?"

"Nope. Owner says she was closing up like usual when he left last night. He said he didn't expect to see her until Wednesday—today's her usual day off."

"Any family in the area?"

"We're checking on a boyfriend, Jason Guthridge. No word on her parents yet."

Calleigh watched as a breeze blew a chunk of the girl's dark hair into her face. Like before, the body was mutilated but the face had been left untouched. "Pretty girl," she murmured before turning her attention back to Ryan. "So is she our second victim?"

"Looks like it," he shook his head. "We're still waiting on Tara for an official cause of death but..." he motioned for Calleigh to follow him around the body and motioned to her bare back, "I'd say we're dealing with the same guy."

Calleigh gave a hard swallow. Just as before, the killer had carved an intricate set of wings into the soft flesh of the girl's back. This time, however, he'd left them something else. "Azrael," she read softly the word he'd carved beneath the wings. "Isn't that the name—"

"Of the angel of death," Ryan finished with a nod. "Guess he saw the Erica Sikes report."

"Yeah," Calleigh looked away, giving another hard swallow in hopes of calming her gag reflex. "Who didn't?"

"Think this is his way of agreeing with her?"

Her eyes scanned the gathering crowd. "I don't know—maybe." She turned back to him with a shrug. "Who called it in?"

Ryan pointed to the back of a man talking to Tripp and consulted his notes. "David Oxley—he found her while he was making his morning deliveries."

She tilted her head to the side, watching as David Oxley rocked from one foot to the other, glancing at the body occasionally over his shoulder. "Did anybody else see anything?"

"I was waiting for you," he gave her a quick smile. "You talk to him," he motioned again to Oxley. "I'll start with what's left of the morning rush."

With a sigh and another glance at the girl's mutilated body, Calleigh headed over to where Tripp was talking to the closest thing to a witness they had so far. He didn't look overly suspicious at first glance – average height, average build, dark hair. When he turned to glance at the body again – why did he keep doing that? – she noticed that he wasn't unattractive. In fact, under other circumstances, he might have been considered ruggedly good-looking. If you squinted. As it was, he was the person to call in the latter of two gruesome murders, and with absolutely no leads on the first case, anyone calling in the second was an immediate person of interest in her book.

"Hi Frank," Calleigh greeted as she sidled up next to the men.

"Mornin' Calleigh," he sighed, tilting his head toward the other man, who was now staring at Calleigh intently. "This is David Oxley. He called it in. Stay with him for a minute; I'm gonna go help Wolfe and grab an officer to escort Mr. Oxley here. We're going to need to take him in to the station for processing. "

"Processing? Why?"

"He touched the body," Frank sighed, shaking his head and stalking away. Tampering with a scene never failed to piss off a good detective – or a good CSI for that matter.

"You touched the body?" she asked Oxley, taking the opportunity to study him up close. He was too calm, she noticed. Most people who had just discovered a dead body were edgy, thrown. Even more so when they were told they had to be taken in for processing. He had an energy to him, but it wasn't quite nervous enough.

"I had to know if it was her. I recognized the tattoo on her wrist."

"You knew the victim?" And the points against him just kept adding up…

"Yeah, I knew Claire." He turned and glanced at the girl again, then flicked his gaze back to Calleigh. "Well, not _knew her_ knew her. She used to work mornings during the week, and I stop in every day during my rounds. She always knew your drink, you know? Didn't even have to order after the first couple weeks; you walked up to the counter and Claire called it out, took your money. She was a good girl, it's a shame this had to happen to her."

Odd phrasing. And her eggs were still not sitting well. Next time she'd skip the heavy breakfast and opt for a couple of pancakes. "It's a shame when it happens to anyone, Mr. Oxley. And it never _has _to."

He met her eyes then, and for a second her looked genuinely hurt. Crap. She was assigning guilt when there was probably just… weird delivery guy. "I just meant-"

"No, I'm sorry. Cases like this are always hard." It was a half-assed excuse, but an excuse nonetheless. "I'm sorry for your loss." He nodded faintly in acknowledgement, then tilted his head slightly and studied her.

"You alright, miss? You look a little pale."

Did she? Maybe it was more than the eggs making her queasy. She couldn't afford to be sick now, not in the middle of a case this big. "I'm fine. Big breakfast."

"Makes you sick to look at her." It was more of a deduction than a question, and Calleigh officially had the creeps. There was something in the way he'd said it, something in his eyes. Something was off. "I know what you mean, I almost chucked in the bushes after I turned her."

Sure you did. "Mr. Oxley, most people would run screaming from a dead body. You touched her. Why?"

"I told you, I wanted to know for sure if it was Claire."

"It didn't bother you? Touching a corpse?"

"My uncle raised pigs. Used to slaughter them on the farm; I stayed with him for a while and was expected to help out. I guess I just… lost my aversion to dead things, you know?"

"No, not really."

"We all end up there some time, Calleigh. It _is_ Calleigh, right?"

"CSI Duquesne," Calleigh corrected, not liking the casual use of her name by someone she didn't know. Especially someone who made her warning bells ring like crazy. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of the officer approaching them. Thank God. "Mr. Oxley, Officer Reynolds is going to take you down to the station for processing. If you touched her, there may be evidence on you."

Oxley nodded calmly, and moved to follow the officer. At the last second, he turned back. "I hope you feel better."

And then he was gone, headed off to the patrol car, leaving Calleigh with an uneasy feeling in her gut to go along with the vague nausea she was still fighting. She raked her hair away from her face and turned back to the storefront just as Ryan emerged. He was headed toward her with a to-go cup clutched in each hand. Her eyes narrowed. "You got _coffee_?"

"_Free_ coffee," he specified, holding one out to her.

"You were supposed to be getting _statements_."

"And I got them," he assured her with a wild elbow motion to his jacket pocket. "They're right here. But I also got free coffee for 'all the trouble'."

Calleigh continued to glare. "And this poor girl's mutilated body does nothing to diminish your appetite?"

Ryan looked hurt. "I got mine without whipped cream. I'm already feeling queasy." He held it out again. "C'mon...I got your favorite."

She sighed and took it from him. "Fine. But only because it's free."

"Atta girl," he said and gave her a smile as Tara's van pulled up.


	3. Chapter Two

Eric was on his way to the autopsy theatre for an update on his vic from that morning when he spied her. Calleigh. Studying something in a folder just outside the interrogation room – prepping herself, no doubt. And somehow looking even better than she had at breakfast, despite the day she'd probably had so far. He'd meant to find her, to talk to her about the new victim. As much as she tried to pretend she wasn't affected by everything, the serial killers unnerved her. Fascinated her, but unnerved her.

And it looked like she was about to get up close and personal with one – or at the very least with a creep if the suspect in the interrogation room was who Eric had heard it was.

Wolfe came trotting down the hall, headed for the same interrogation, no doubt. "Delko, my man. You're gonna miss out on all the action in there."

Eric scowled and shook his head. "Yeah, go ahead. Rub it in. Hey, is that the guy who touched the body?"

Scoffing, Ryan turned to study the suspect through the glass. "Yeah, David Oxley. They found his hair on the vic, so they brought him in for questioning."

"Could be passive," Eric pointed out. "If he has a decent lawyer -- or a decent brain -- we won't be able to hold him."

"Yeah, we know," Ryan sighed, "But Calleigh wanted another crack at him. She said he 'had a vibe.' She had H run a background check on him, and it turns out there's more to good old David Oxley than meets the eye."

Wasn't there always, Eric wondered. Still, he was always up for a good story. "Yeah, like what?"

"Like a brother up in Florida State for stabbing a girl 27 times, and Oxley's name listed as a 'person of interest.'"

Letting out a slow whistle, Eric shook his head. Well that certainly didn't help Oxley in the least. "And here I thought my dead call girl would be the exciting case of the day."

"Right. Like a dead call girl competes with another vic from our guy," Ryan very nearly boasted.

"Yeah, yeah," Eric dismissed ruefully, checking his watch. He was supposed to meet Tara one minute from now, and she hated when he ran late. "Enjoy the glory case. I've got a hooker waiting for me downstairs."

Eric didn't even realize what he'd said until Ryan smirked at him, then chuckled as he caught Calleigh's beckoning head-tilt. "Bet that's not the first time you've said that."

"Cute, Wolfe." And then they were off – Ryan to join Calleigh (lucky bastard), and Eric to deal with a moody ME.

Calleigh slid into the chair across from David Oxley – who had changed in the three hours since she'd last seen him. A co-worker had brought him the change of clothes from his warehouse locker, or so she'd been told. He now sat before her, slouched casually in his chair, smirking at her. She hated the smirkers.

"Miss me, Calleigh?"

"CSI Duquesne," Calleigh corrected with a cool and tight-lipped smile of bemused irritation. "And sorry, Mr. Oxley --"

"David," he cut in.

"_Mr. Oxley,_ I can't say that I did," she replied curtly. She'd skipped lunch to let her stomach settle – and it had, until she'd had to sit across from Oxley and get the skeevy eye. Thankfully, Ryan had just settled down into the chair next to her.

Oxley sat back in his chair and studied the pair of them, watched as Ryan twitched a supportive smile in Calleigh's direction. He grinned. "You're the kid with the coffee, right?"

"This is CSI Wolfe," Calleigh corrected, her lips pursed into a tight line. "He's the other officer assigned to this case."

"Wow," Oxley looked impressed. "Somebody's a little overprotective of their coffee gofer. Don't need to get snippy, Calleigh, I was just askin' so I could keep you all straight in my head."

"We'll getcha a list," Ryan promised with a roll of his eyes. "Mr. Oxley," he began, getting down to business, "we found your hair on the victim's body."

"Yeah, I figured," Oxley shrugged. "I already told you I touched her."

"Yes," Calleigh nodded, "you did." She laced her fingers together and rested them on the table in front of her. "I'm sorry, I'm still having trouble understanding why you did that."

Oxley sighed. "Had to be sure it was Claire before I called it in."

"So you're saying you wouldn't have called it in if it had been someone else?" Ryan asked.

Their suspect scoffed. "C'mon, guys. Of course I would've--I just wanted to be sure," he sat back in the chair again with a shake of his head. "This is ridiculous. A guy tries to do the right thing and this is the thanks I get. Maybe I should've started by calling in traffic violations--worked up to murders."

"You made the right choice by calling it in," Ryan assured him. "We're just questioning your actions beforehand."

"Questioning my actions..." he shook his head again. "Somebody killed her--shouldn't you be out there finding whoever did it instead of holding me up with this shit?"

"I assure you, we're following every lead," Calleigh said evenly.

"You really think I did this?" he asked casually, tilting his head to the side.

"I don't know," Calleigh countered, narrowing her eyes. "Did you?"

Oxley's mouth turned up at the side. "That's a clever interrogation tactic you got there, Calleigh."

"It's CSI Duquesne." Her gaze turned to Ryan and shifted down to the folder.

"Uh-oh...I've seen that look before," Oxley said before Ryan could open his mouth.

"What look?" Ryan asked innocently.

"I bet I can guess what's in that file," Oxley motioned to the folder beneath Ryan's drumming fingertips.

"Really?"

"Well, either you've got some kind of evidence that says I did something I didn't..."

"You mean something like murdering Claire Vincent?" Ryan interrupted conversationally.

"Yeah," Oxley nodded with another grin. "Something like that. And since there's no way you could have any evidence regarding _Claire_ -- on account of I'm innocent -- I'm betting it's got something to do with my brother."

Calleigh slid the file away from Ryan and opened it. "Why don't you tell us about your brother?"

"My brother's innocent. But the family of that girl, they don't believe him. Got him in lock up on a bunch on unequivocal evidence just like what you keep calling me in on."

"All due respect, but if the evidence was unequivocal, he wouldn't be in prison," Calleigh pointed out. Before Oxley could get a word in edgewise, she questioned, "Why would the family go after you?"

"We lived together at the time she was killed." His gaze traveled down to her cleavage and Calleigh wished she'd worn a more conservative top. Dark eyes flicked back up to hers a moment later. "They think I was in on it. Been harassing me for years. That's why I moved out to the glades. Get away from all that. Get some peace."

"And how's that workin' out for you?" Ryan asked dryly.

"Alright so far, officer," Oxley replied, not bothering to reign in his scowl. "But if this questioning keeps up, I may have to amend that."

"Well, if you're troubled by the attention, Mr. Oxley, you may want to reconsider getting up close and personal with any dead bodies you happen across in the future," Calleigh advised. "It tends to arouse suspicion."

"I told you, Calleigh." She felt the ire rise up her spine, like mercury in a thermometer, and pressed her lips together into a thin frown. If he didn't stop calling her by her first name, she might pop a vein. "I needed to know it if was Claire."

"Y'know, you are awfully hung up on this girl," Calleigh realized, flipping past the papers on his brother to pull up one of Claire Vincent's autopsy photos. "You sure she didn't do more than make your coffee?"

"What exactly are you implying, Calleigh?"

"_CSI Duquesne_," she corrected pointedly, emphatically. "And I'm not implying anything, Mr. Oxley. I'm simply asking if you and Claire Vincent had more than coffee in common. We know she had a boyfriend, but that doesn't mean she couldn't have been seeing you on the side."

"To tell you the truth, Ms. Duquesne," She was so surprised to hear him address her somewhat properly that she smiled without thinking. "I had a little bit of a crush on her. But no, we were never involved. Like you said, she had a boyfriend."

"You never asked her out?"

"I invited her to a concert. That's how I found out about the boyfriend. No harm done; I'm not interested in breaking up a happy couple. Even for a girl as pretty as Claire." Calleigh must have made a face, because Oxley shrugged and leaned forward finally, resting his arms on the table. "What can I say? I like brunettes. Although, for you I might just make an exception…"

He reached out for her hand, and Calleigh was just a second too late as she pulled them back out of his reach. His fingers brushed hers, cold and clammy. She had the sudden urge to shower. "Please don't," she bit, closing the file and handing it back to Ryan. "I think we're done here. For now." She turned to the attending officer, and ordered "Get him out of here," before pushing away from the table and stalking from the interrogation room.

Valera and Natalia stood about five feet away; they'd been watching the investigation through the glass walls. "Did he just touch you?" Natalia questioned, her gaze following Oxley as he walked in the other direction, toward the exit.

"Yes. He did." Calleigh caught herself wiping the point of contact against her pants, like she could somehow brush off the feeling of unease that had settled over her. "That guy gives me the creeps."

"I'll say."

"Do you think he did it?" Valera questioned, and Calleigh watched Oxley disappear around the corner before answering quietly.

"Yes."

"Yuck," Natalia deduced, and Calleigh wanted nothing more than to agree with her, but…

"The evidence doesn't support it, though. Not anything concrete, anyway," she sighed. "So he's a free man."

"Well, that's just great," Natalia grumbled with a shake of her head. "There's a serial killer on the loose in Miami, and right now there's nothing we can do about it."

"Sure there is," Valera argued, nodding resolutely. "Drink."

Calleigh cocked her head and smiled in confusion. "I beg your pardon?"

"There's a creepy serial killer on the loose in Miami, and we have nothing to hold him on. If you ask me, the best thing we can do right now is lock ourselves in a safe apartment, and drink until the creep factor wears off."

"A creepy serial killer, huh? As opposed to the _uncreepy _serial killers we see so often?" Natalia asked with a roll of her eyes.

Calleigh couldn't help but laugh. Only Valera. "Maxine, you astound me. But there may be something to that theory. What do you say, Natalia? Girls night?"

"I'm in. Who's hosting?"

"My idea," Valera reasoned. "My place. And I'll bring the booze."

"I'll bring the food."

"I'll bring the Meg Ryan."


	4. Chapter Three

The credits of _You've Got Mail_ had just begun to roll when Natalia let out a contented sigh. "I always wanted a man like Tom Hanks," she said, reaching for a handful of popcorn.

"Who didn't?" Calleigh agreed with an understanding nod.

"I was always more of a Billy Crystal man myself," Valera admitted thoughtfully. "Which reminds me—is it time for Harry to meet Sally?"

Calleigh refilled their wine glasses with a grin. "Like you even have to ask."

All in all, this girls' night had been an immense success. There had been pizza and boneless wings, popcorn and a seemingly endless supply of chocolate snacks, and some of the best sangria she'd had in awhile.

Calleigh had nearly forgotten her immensely creepy morning and David Oxley all together.

"So I was thinking we should probably start using the Buddy System when we go out at night," Valera said, clumsily fiddling with the DVD case.

"The Buddy System?" Calleigh raised an eyebrow and her glass to her lips.

"Y'know, to avoid a carving by this Angel of Death guy."

Well. There went that.

"Don't you think that's a little extreme?"

"Well you don't have anything to worry about," Natalia pointed out, brandishing a chunk of her dark brown hair. "You're not his type—Maxine and I are officially targets."

"Wouldn't it be smarter to pair up with a blonde or a redhead then? Eliminate half the temptation?"

"Well," Valera shrugged, "Natalia's got a gun and she's totally trigger happy."

"I am not!" she exclaimed indignantly.

"Are too," Maxine rolled her eyes. "You shot a guy after having your gun for like, three hours."

Natalia looked to Calleigh for help, but she was met with a shrug. "She's got a little bit of a point."

"Oh c'mon! He was reaching into his pocket!"

"All right, all right," Calleigh conceded with a laugh. She pointed to the television. "Harry and Sally—let's do it."

"I'm...having difficulties," Valera frowned, offering the plastic case to her friends.

"You're drunk," Calleigh fought the urge to tsk as she popped open the case and offered the shining silver to Valera to play.

"Yep," she agreed with a nod as she collapsed on the couch next to Natalia. "I miss having someone to drunk-text."

Natalia turned to her with surprise. "What about...John? Josh? Josiah?"

Valera's dark eyes rolled again. "Joel."

"I was close."

"He's done...has to 'focus on his career'," she scoffed, making air quotes with her fingers.

"Well that doesn't sound like too bad of a brush off," Calleigh put in optimistically from the her end of the futon.

"Oh please!" Valera exclaimed. "It's code for 'I found someone better to fuck.'"

"Is it?" Calleigh's face contorted in confusion. "I thought 'we're moving too fast' was code for that."

"It's a complex language," Natalia put in dryly. "Kind of like how the Eskimos have four hundred words for snow?"

"Where the hell have you been?" Valera asked while on the screen, the opening couple began talking about how they met.

"Sorry," the blonde shrugged. "The last line I got was, 'I have to go be a secret agent now...mind hanging out in case I don't die?'"

"Jake was a tool."

Natalia laughed and patted Valera's knee. "You're so poetic when you're drunk."

"Well, its true," she muttered, downing another swallow of her sangria. "Now drink up; I can't be the only drunkard in the room tonight."

Calleigh found herself laughing along with them as Natalia dutifully gulped down a few more swallows. She sipped her own sangria slowly, grateful that the conversation had spun away from Azrael and David Oxley and the spiders-under-her-skin feeling that his touch had aroused that afternoon. Just thinking about it raised the hair on her arms and sent a shiver down her spine. She took another drink to settle herself and focused her attention on the movie.

By the time Meg Ryan was faking the big O, Calleigh was pouring another round as Natalia sighed unfortunately, "Ah, the big fake. Who hasn't been there?"

"I haven't," Valera announced, fumbling her glass slightly before settling it on the coffee table with a snicker. She'd moved to the floor after her last bathroom trip – apparently the futon had just been a few steps further than she could manage. Well, that or she wanted to be closer to the bowl of Hershey kisses, Calleigh wasn't really sure.

"You've never faked an orgasm?" Natalia questioned incredulously, and Calleigh noticed through the light swirl of alcohol in her brain that the brunette's cheeks were flushed, her eyes blinking slowly, a giddy smirk underscoring her look of doubt. Apparently she was catching up to Valera in the inebriation department.

"Hell, no," Valera declared emphatically. "You should never have to fake it. If your lover can't get their shit together, you just tell them where to go and what to do until they get it right."

"Well, sometimes its not worth all the effort," Calleigh confessed, earning a grateful raise of the glass form Natalia. "I mean, if it's just not gonna happen… Sometimes its easier to fake it than tell a guy he's not getting the job done, and have to deal with the sulking and the weeks of bruised ego, and…" She trailed off, shaking her head and sipping again.

"Exactly," Natalia agreed, nabbing the bowl of popcorn and tucking it between her leg and the arm of her chair. "And when you know he's gonna get there before you, no matter _what_ you ask him to do to you…"

Calleigh nodded sympathetically, stretching to reach the chocolate and very nearly sloshing her sangria. Maybe she'd had a little more than she realized…

"Eric Delko a bit of a minute-man?" Valera teased, and Calleigh nearly choked on her chocolate for reasons unknown. Or at least, reasons she had no desire to admit to.

"Oh, no," Natalia assured, smirking and sipping her drink again. "Not Eric. Eric is… a giver."

Valera cackled with delight as Calleigh felt her cheeks flush with a heat that had nothing to do with wine. "Do tell," Max insisted, reclining against Natalia's leg.

"Or don't!" Cal cut in, having finally managed to swallow her chocolate. The girls turned to look at her, and she'd have laughed at the way their eyebrows quirked into almost identical arches if she hadn't been so suddenly embarrassed. "He's a coworker, and a friend, and its inappropriate to talk about his sexual prowess over wine and snacks."

"Appropriate schmappropriate," Valera dismissed with a wave of her hand, stumbling a little over the words. "I think you just don't want to talk about it because you have a big ol' crush on him."

"What? I do not." The denial sounded weak even to her ears, but it was true. She didn't have a "crush" on Eric Delko. She was… attracted to him, certainly. Always had been, and maybe – maybe – there had been something deeper over the past few months, but it certainly wasn't a crush. Women in their 30s didn't get crushes. No, sir. Nope.

"Well, that was convincing," Valera teased dryly, letting he head drop back onto Natalia's knee.

"You know he's into you, right?" Natalia questioned, and Calleigh wished desperately for a phone to ring, or the doorbell, or…

"Y'know, can we just watch the movie? We're missing crucial… something. Scenes. I don't – let's just –" Knowing she was caught, and too tipsy to find her way out of this logically, she caved. "He is a very sweet man, and… nicely formed, and yes, maybe there's some tension, but there has always been some tension, and it doesn't mean anything, and nothing is going to happen between me and Eric Delko. So. Can we please just watch the movie?"

Valera opened her mouth as if to needle a bit more out of her, but Natalia took pity on Calleigh and cut her off. "Okay. We'll watch the movie."

"Thank you." Calleigh wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear, but the best she could manage right now was to sink down until she was stretched along the length of the futon, burying her face against one of the throw pillows and training her gaze on the TV. She'd had enough sangria that she had to squint a little to keep it in perfect focus, and after a while she let her eyes drop shut. Just for a minute. Just to rest them. She was fast asleep within moments.

**---------**

"Calleigh," Natalia urged quietly, nudging the blonde's shoulder. "Calleigh, wake up."

"Maybe she's dead," Valera suggested from her spot on the floor, peering up in concern.

Natalia laughed and shook her head. "She's breathing, Maxine. She's fine. I think she's just… out. She had a lot to drink; I don't think she's going to wake up for another couple hours."

One hand flailing in what Natalia took to be a dismissive gesture, Valera half-slurred, "Forget it, then. Let her have the whole futon to herself. I have a bed. It's big. We can share."

"Share your bed?" Natalia asked, turning a little too fast and pressing a hand to her temple as the world spun out-of-sync with her vision for a moment, then settled again. She'd had _a lot_ of sangria.

"Yeah. It'll be like college." She planted one palm on the coffee table, the other on the chair Natalia had been sitting in all night, and pushed herself up onto wobbly legs. "Without the lesbian sex."

"I… never had the lesbian sex in college," Natalia informed, making her way around the coffee table and reaching for Valera's hand when the other woman stumbled a little.

"Really?" Valera's grip was tight and a little sweaty, but Natalia was still aware enough to know she wasn't faring much better, so she used the connection as an anchor as they made their way toward the bedroom.

"Really."

"That's a shame. I have to pee," Valera announced, and Natalia snorted a laugh before releasing her hand and heading into the bedroom. She slapped the light on for Maxine and collapsed onto the bed, wriggling out of her jeans and then rolling onto her back and watching the textured ceiling spin hypnotically. She'd had _a lot_ of sangria.

A few minutes later, the lights went out and she felt the bed dip next to her as Valera crawled in and sprawled with a sigh. "See? Big bed."

"Uh huh."

They were silent for a moment, and Natalia was half-dozing before Valera piped up again. "We need to get them together."

"What?" She turned onto her side and felt the shift of the bed as Valera did the same.

"Calleigh and Eric. They're perfect for each other. They should be doing it."

She snorted another laugh and pressed her eyes shut. "Yeah. I suppose you're right."

"Plus, I think they're both lonely. And nobody should be lonely."

_Isn't that the truth?_ Natalia thought, thinking of her own barren love life of late. "Yeah."

"Mmhmm."

"Yep." Suddenly Valera's lips were on hers, sloppy but soft, and Natalia's eyes popped open wide. Whoa. _Whoa_. What was – hey now. She turned her head out of the kiss and squinted to make out Valera's face in the dark. "Maxine – I don't – what happened to no lesbian sex?"

"That wasn't sex. That was a kiss."

"Yeah. I…. Why?"

"Because nobody should be lonely. And you've never kissed a girl."

"So you kissed me?"

"Yes. Also, I'm drunk and you smell nice." Natalia couldn't help but laugh at that despite the anxious doubt wiggling through her gut. Then she felt a hand on her hip before Valera's mouth brushed hers again, and she was surprised to find herself leaning into the kiss instead of pulling away from it. Maybe it was the sangria talking, but suddenly this didn't seem like an awful idea. Except, well, there was one problem.

"Valera," she interrupted, pulling away again. "I'm not gay."

"Neither am I." She could almost see the shrug, the flippant expression. "This isn't about that."

"What is this about?"

"I don't know yet. Let me keep kissing you, and maybe we'll find out."

It was drunk logic, but, well, she was drunk, so Natalia found herself nodding, murmuring a quiet, "okay," and then Valera's mouth was on hers again. They started out tentative, hesitant, and it was… surprisingly nice. She couldn't have said who ratcheted up the intensity, but somewhere along the way hands began to wander, legs tangled, hips pressed together. Natalia's head was spinning from alcohol and giddy nerves when a hand found its way between her thighs, and she gasped and clutched Maxine closer, kissing her harder and this was probably a huge, huge mistake but it felt so good and… and she'd had_ a lot _of sangria. So she lost herself in a haze of gasping breaths and warm kisses and seeking fingers, and when it was over and she was left trembling in afterglow with Valera's arm sprawled across her belly, she ordered herself not to think and shut her eyes against the tilt-a-whirl her world had become. She was pretty sure, though, that what had just happened would lead to more questions than answers.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Chances are, right now you're probably thinking "WHAT THE FRILLY HECK WAS THAT?!?" And we admit that surprise lesbian sex is, well, surprising. But go with us on this one. Trust us. We won't let ya down! (And to ease the minds of those who aren't into the lesbian sex and are afeared that SomewhereApart will be pickin' up her porn pen and throwing in some graphic girl-on-girl action later on, rest assured that its not going to get any more graphic than this for those two. But we have plans for them, and they're fun plans, so stick around!)

Peace out,

SomewhereApart and Bella7


	5. Chapter Four

When Calleigh awoke the next morning it was with a telltale dull aching behind her eyes and a sickeningly dry mouth. She sat up slowly, ungluing her eyelids one by one, taking the trashed living room with a wince.

Abandoned aluminum chocolate kiss wrappers littered the floor and coffee table, open and empty pizza boxes stacked on top of one another, a half-eaten pan of brownies she couldn't even recall baking, let alone eating, and the heavy smell of hot wings still hung in the air. Calleigh ran a hand over her face as her eyes found the four empty bottles of wine lined proudly against the entertainment center.

Four bottles of wine and a junk-food overload. No wonder she felt like utter crap. With another heavy sigh and a quick prayer that she didn't throw up, Calleigh heaved herself to her feet and made her way slowly into the kitchen. To her surprise, Natalia was already awake, sitting very still at the table, a cup of coffee in front of her.

"Morning," Calleigh mumbled, sliding into the chair beside her.

Natalia immediately leapt to her feet. "Yeah, it is," she said hurriedly, racing to the cabinets. "You want some coffee? You look terrible—I'll get you some coffee." She stopped for a moment and caught Calleigh's expression. "I didn't mean that you look terrible," she rambled, reaching for another mug. "I just meant that—"

"No, no," Calleigh raised a hand to stop her. "I'm sure I do." She fumbled for her watch. "What time is it?"

"Almost seven."

"How long have you been up?"

Natalia swallowed hard, remembering the tangle of limbs and sheets in which she'd found herself that morning. "Awhile," she managed, turning to brew some more coffee.

Calleigh's hands ran over her face again. "My head is killing me," she said softly before looking up. "How are you feeling?"

"Me?" Natalia repeated, nearly dropping the ceramic mug in her hands. "I'm fine—why wouldn't I be fine?"

"You mean you don't even feel a little bit sick after last night?" This time the mug did drop, shattering into a dozen pieces. Calleigh jumped up and reached into the corner for the broom and dustpan. "Jesus, Natalia—are you okay?"

Natalia bent and began gathering the bigger shards in her hands. "Yeah," she gave a pathetic attempt at a laugh. "Of course. And why should I be sick? I'm not sick. I mean..." she took the pieces to the trash. "I mean nothing happened last night that I should feel sick about. And even if it did, I wouldn't feel sick about it because it was nothing and therefore I have nothing to be sick about."

Calleigh blinked. It was too early for this. "What?"

"Nothing," Natalia returned to the task at hand with a cough. "Nothing."

"Good morning!" Valera entered the room with a chipper grin and greeting. "Whoa," she surveyed the remnants of the broken mug, "what happened?"

"It just slipped out of my hands," Natalia muttered, not looking up.

"Here," Valera bent beside her, "let me help."

"I got it," Natalia insisted, scooping up another handful. A sliver of ceramic embedded itself into her skin. "Damnit," she hissed as blood bubbled to the surface.

"Ooo," Valera reached for her hand. "Let me see."

"No!" Natalia said shrilly, wrenching away. "I'm fine! No laying on of hands necessary."

"Little late for that," Valera said quietly with a shrug.

Calleigh, who had been watching this little exchange with mild interest, narrowed her eyes at that. She watched as Natalia opened her mouth to respond but nothing came out. The brunette tried again. Still no words. Her jaw opened and closed a few times before a pager went off in the next room. Grateful for an interruption, Calleigh leapt up to see whose it was, almost happy that it was for her.

"Hate to break up the party, ladies," she called out into the kitchen, "but our suspect is back in custody."

**/~/**

Eric caught sight of Calleigh just as she was stepping off the elevator (no surprise, considering he'd been glancing up every few minutes hoping for her arrival), and the first thing he noticed was how exhausted she looked. She'd tried to hide it, sure, with a careful mask of makeup, but he could tell even from a dozen feet away that her eyes were a little red, her skin a little pale. And she wasn't smiling. Not even a hint of a curve to those lips that drove him to distraction whenever they talked.

He hated to see her looking ragged and unhappy, so he set down the evidence he was barely paying attention to in the first place, stripped off his gloves, and followed her into the break room.

"Hey," he greeted, watching as she filled her mug – the lavender one that held more than some of his soup bowls and had a "C. Duquesne" label affixed to the bottom – with what was left of his Café Cubano.

It sloshed a little when she glanced up to smile her hello, a few hot droplets landing on her hand and making her wince and curse softly. "Damnit!" She settled the pot back into place with a clatter and lifted her hand to suck the coffee off her burns.

Eric crossed to her immediately, easing her hand from her mouth and studying the faint red splotches. "Here, run it under some cold water," he urged, tugging her the few inches to the sink and turning the water on as cold as it would go. She murmured a quiet thank-you, and they stood there for a minute, hands under the icy stream until the only spot of warmth was where the pads of his fingertips pressed to hers, blocking the water from her skin.

They stayed there long enough for him to realize this was another one of those freeze-frame moments, where the world seemed to shrink down to nothing but her eyes and the feel of her hand against his. He thought back to that moment, ages ago it seemed, when he'd pulled a shard of glass from her finger in a house of burned-out rubble, and he wondered why these moments always happened when she was injured. And then she cleared her throat and drew her hand away, and his fingertips almost burned at the sudden cold of the water sluicing over them before he slapped the tap off. What kind of horror would have to happen for one of them to finally close that distance, he asked himself.

She'd busied herself by reaching for her coffee, blowing gently across the surface and blooming a current of ripples that made him think inexplicably of ocean tides and seismic waves. And then she brought her mouth to the rim and sipped slowly and he couldn't think at all, except to think that he shouldn't be thinking about her this way.

"Long night?" he asked, anything to break the silence, not realizing how offensive that might be until he caught the way she arched one eyebrow slowly. "I heard Natalia say something about a girl's night," he explained hastily, then gestured for her cup. "And you're about to drink a Lake Okeechobee of coffee, so…"

She smirked a little, shook her head and leaned against the counter. The tension in the room bellied down onto the floor and slithered out through the vents, and things felt normal again. "I can't remember the last time I had so much wine," she admitted a little sheepishly. "There are snatches of time I have absolutely no recollection of."

"Anything involving lingerie and pillow fights?" he asked teasingly, grinning at her and watching as her lips finally, finally curved into a bright smile, her eyes rolling as she shook her head.

"No," she insisted firmly. "But-" She seemed to catch herself, lifting the coffee for another sip and averting her gaze slightly, and Eric's interest was suddenly piqued.

"But?" he demanded conspiratorially, leaning toward her slightly and remaining acutely aware of how close their bodies still were.

"But nothing," she recovered with a smile that somehow managed to be dismissive. His hopes for juicy pillow-fight stories were dashed completely to the curb when she continued, "I hear Oxley is back?"

"Yeah," Eric confirmed slowly, eyeing her careful as he added, "And he refuses to be questioned by anyone but you."

Eric watched her register the information, pause, then watched the uneasy shift in her expression as it sunk in. "Are you serious?"

"Unfortunately. We traced some pollen from the vic's nasal cavity to plants indigenous to his area of the Glades, and patrol picked him up straight from his morning route for more questioning. But he's refused to say a peep to anyone. Says doesn't like getting passed around from officer to officer." Eric made his disgust perfectly visible when he quoted, "He's 'a relationship kind of guy.'"

"Yeah, I bet," Calleigh muttered, then pressed a hand to her stomach and sipped again, gulping down a little bit more of the dark, strong brew. "Where's Ryan?"

"He got the early call-out," Eric informed. "You're stuck with me for the morning."

Calleigh smirked, opened her mouth as if to say something, but then thought better of it. She took one more sip, then set her not-even-half-empty mug on the counter top, ripped a page off the notepad stuck near the sink and scrawled "DON'T TOUCH! I'LL SHOOT!" onto it before trapping the edge under her mug.

"Okay, then," she announced, nodding. "Get me the report, and let's get this out of the way. I still have casings from that drive-by to process, and I'd rather not have Mr. Creepy lurking around the lab all morning."

And with that, they were off.

**/~/**

"You gotta be kidding me," Oxley drawled, shaking his head at the folder laid in front of him and looking Calleigh directly in the eye. Her already unsettled stomach was twisting into uncomfortable knots, and she wanted this interrogation over as soon as possible. Note to self: no more girly bacchanals on work nights. The hangover haze isn't conducive to interrogating or analyzing. Or serial killers.

"I assure you, we're not kidding, Mr. Oxley-"

"David."

She clenched her jaw, let it go. Again. "This particular pollen is specific to areas off that roadway in the Everglades. And the only way Claire Vincent could have breathed it in is if she was in that part of the Everglades on the night she was murdered." She folded her hands, winced slightly at the friction on her fading burns. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the movement of Eric's hand as he started to reach for her, then stopped himself, veering instead for the pen and pad next to her and pulling them toward him as if to take notes. Oxley seemed to notice as well, if the subtle twitch of his brows and slow, knowing smile were any indication. Calleigh felt her skin crawl again. "And I don't think I need to remind you that you live in that part of the Everglades," she added, trying to stick to the topic at hand.

"Yeah, and I'm not the only one. Besides, she could have been there anytime that day," he dismissed with a wave of his hand. "She closes, remember? Free all morning. That overgrown frat boy she was dating gives airboat tours. She went on and on about it one day, how he was going to take her, and they were going to see the gators and take pictures. She was into photography, I guess."

"You sure know a lot about her," Eric observed. "I mean, for someone who just bought a cup of coffee from her every day. You know what she likes, what her boyfriend does for a living, what her plans were…"

"Well, what can I say?" Oxley's gaze slid to Calleigh again, held there. "I'm a relationship kind of guy." Something in the way he said it made her blood turn as icy as the tap that had poured over her hand not long ago.

"A lot of killers are," Eric supplied, grabbing Oxley's attention enough for him to slap his gaze back to Delko.

"She was personable," he bit, his tone contrasting his statement when he continued, "And so am I. Sometimes we got to chatting, not uncommon when you're a regular someplace. I work alone; sometimes Claire was my only conversation all day."

Calleigh shook her head slightly. "Well, you just keep painting a clearer and clearer picture, Mr. Oxley. Lonely delivery guy, girl who gives him attention, maybe one day she _stops_ giving him attention-"

"You know what I think?" he interrupted. "I think you watch too many bad Lifetime movies. Or maybe, _Calleigh_, you just wanted to see me again."

His hand reached across the table, just like the last time, but this morning she was quick enough to snatch her own out of reach. Beside her, Eric straightened, one of his hands reaching over to settle on top of hers. "Back off, Oxley."

Calleigh wiggled her hand out from under Eric's as Oxley snickered. "Well, look at that. Does the lovesick puppy have a problem with someone sniffing around his bitch?"

Calleigh flushed with both anger and embarrassment, and Eric clenched the muscle in his jaw the way he did whenever he was angry. Rushing to diffuse, Calleigh reached for the evidence folder. "Okay, this interrogation is over," she ordered sharply, barely flicking her gaze to the patrol officer by the door. "I want him out of my sight."

She was only slightly mollified by the way the officer manhandled Oxley as he tugged him up and out of his chair, and when he was gone, Eric muttered to her, "He's gonna walk again."

"We'll get him back," she assured curtly, with more surety than she actually felt. "And don't _ever_ touch me like that during an interrogation again."

Not waiting for his reply, Calleigh pushed her chair back and stalked out of the room. She needed more coffee. A lot more coffee.


End file.
